A scream next. Clara’s.
His heart skipped a beat—then he bolted down the corridor. Oh God, please.
Just before the door, he forced his feet to a standstill. Every muscle quivered to race in and sweep Clara away from danger, but he’d be no use to her with a bullet through his own head.
Holding his breath, he peered around the doorframe.
And his heart stopped.
Across the room, Mademoiselle Pretents aimed a gun at Clara. Nearby, the inspector slumped against the settee cushion, bleeding.
If that French hothead pulled the trigger again—
Shoving the consequences out of his mind, Ben yanked off his shoe and threw it at the window behind the woman.
Glass shattered.
Mademoiselle Pretents whirled toward the sound.
He strode through the door.
The woman jerked her face toward him, gun barrel trained on his chest. Excellent. Better at him than at Clara.
“Homme fou!” The grey menace spit out a host of curses. “Why you do that?”
He held up his hands, appearing to surrender, but continued walking. Smooth steps. Slow. If he could keep her talking long enough to draw close, he stood a greater chance of disarming her.
Unless she shot him first.
“I merely wanted to get your attention.” He spoke as to a wee child on the verge of a tantrum. “What’s going on in here?”
Across the room, Clara whimpered. Mr. Pocket eked out a painful grunt.
Ben kept walking. Five more paces, and he’d be in range to snatch the gun.
Mademoiselle Pretents’s dark eyes rooted on him, murder glinting. “This is none of your concern.”
He nodded toward the revolver. “Looks like you just made it mine.”
Three more steps.
She straightened her arm like a ramrod, the muzzle jutting closer to him. “Stop! Or I will shoot.”
He took another step.
A strangled cry garbled from Clara’s throat.
“I told you to shut up, lay-dee!” Mademoiselle Pretents yelled.
One pace more. So close.
“She means you no harm, mademoiselle, nor do I.” He raised his hands higher, shoulder level, and dared a final step. “Do you have a quarrel with me?”
She opened her mouth—
He shot out his left hand, grabbing the top of the barrel. His right hand snapped into the tender flesh of her inner wrist. The momentum directed the muzzle toward her belly, and she let go.
Transferring the revolver to his right hand, he aimed it at her. “Not so nice to be on the other end, is it?”
Wine-coloured blotches darkened her cheeks. French indictments thickened the air, along with vile names directed at him and Mr. Pocket.
“Clara”—he spoke without varying his gaze—“fetch me a stocking from your mending basket.”
Keeping a wide berth from the Frenchwoman, Clara stole over to her basket and retrieved a long silken legging. Perfect.
He tipped his head toward the seat Clara had recently vacated. “Sit in that chair, mademoiselle.”
“You are a devil!” She grumbled all the way to her seat, then plopped down, her skirts ballooning like a rain cloud. “I am not the criminal here. He is!” Her evil eye speared Pocket through the heart. “He stole my jewels, I tell you.”
Before tying up the woman, Ben glanced at the inspector. A little pale, but not deathly. The heel of his hand kept pressure on the wound, upper right chest, near the shoulder. Blood soaked through his shirt and waistcoat, but not in a pulsing stream. It wasn’t a killing shot, unless infection set in. He’d need attention soon, though.
First to secure the French firebrand. Turning his back to the inspector, Ben traded the gun for the stocking in Clara’s hand. Worried eyes peered deeply into his. She’d likely never held a revolver in her life.
Mademoiselle Pretents started to rise.
Ben pushed her back. He tied each of her hands tightly to the chair arms. While he worked, the woman called down all manner of fiery oaths upon his head, his mother, and any future children he might sire. Finally, he fumbled with the knot of his cravat and freed his tie, then shoved the fabric into her mouth. The woman’s eyes widened an instant before tapering to angry slashes.
For the first time in an eternity, he breathed deeply, pulse finally slowing.
Clara huddled next to him, face drained of colour. “Thank you. If you’d not arrived when you did—”
“Then there would’ve been one less person for me to deal with.” Mr. Pocket’s words snarled behind them, followed by the cock of a pistol hammer. “But no matter. I’ve drawn this out long enough.”
Bile seared upward from Ben’s gut. The Christmas tree fire. The thinned ice. The flying ax head and the loosened stair carpeting. It all made sense now. Fury quaked through him. Pocket hadn’t been sent here to watch him—the man was here to make sure none of them remained.
“Put the gun on the floor, miss. Then turn around and push it to me with your toe. Slowly.” Pocket’s voice was kicked gravel. From intimidation or pain?
Ben angled his head, listening harder.
“Move one more twitch, Lane, and you’re a dead man,” Pocket warned.
“Don’t worry, Inspector. I’ve got him covered.” The steel in Clara’s voice stabbed him through the heart.
He’d taken kidney punches before, sharp enough to stop his breathing, but this time, he doubted he’d ever breathe again. He slid his gaze to the left, where Clara backed away from him.
The gun in her hand aimed at his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The revolver shook in Clara’s hands, but not from the cold bleeding in from the broken window or from inexperience with firearms. Her brother had seen to that, instructing her in the pursuit of marksmanship when his friends were scarce.
So while the weight and grip molded in her palm was entirely familiar, it was the act of aiming the thing at Ben that caused the muscles in her arms to quiver. Calculating the probability of success for such a wild scheme was impossible. She wrapped her fingers tighter around the grip, heart racing. This had to work. It must. Or they’d both be dead.
And Ben would go to his grave thinking the worst of her.
“Hold it right there, missy.” Mr. Pocket’s pistol, smaller than the revolver in her own hand, wavered ever so slightly between her and Ben. “What are you about?”
She dared one more step back, gaining as much distance from Ben as possible. “I should like to parley, Mr. Pocket.”
Mademoiselle Pretents whinnied some kind of comment behind the gag in her mouth.
Ben stiffened, the fabric of his dress coat stretching taut across his shoulders.
God, please, may Ben forgive me. Her stomach twisted. Had she not just minutes before portended Mr. Pocket’s bold actions might be a bold failure?
“Parley for what?” Mr. Pocket snorted. “I hold the advantage. You shoot Mr. Lane, and I put a shot through you. There’s nothing to negotiate.”
“Ahh, but there is.” The slight smile curving her lips tasted like rancid fat. But showing fear of any kind would attract a bullet. She lifted her chin. “Allow me to reach into my pocket, sir, for I have something of value to offer you.”
Mr. Pocket narrowed his eyes. “In exchange for what?”
“My life.”
A curse, foul as any Mademoiselle Pretents had uttered, flew past his lips. “I could just shoot you now and take whatever it is from you.”
True, except as she studied the pallor of his skin, the red soaking through not only his waistcoat but his dress coat, she doubted he had much stamina remaining. She lifted her chin higher, looking down her nose at him. “You could, but in so doing Mr. Lane would no doubt attack you. You saw how quickly he moves. Do you really think in your state you’d stand a chance of reloading before he disarmed you? Oh, don’t look so surprised, Mr. Pocket. I may be a lady, but I can tell the difference between a pistol and a revolver.”<
br />
She flashed a glance at Ben. It wasn’t much, but would he take the hint?
The smell of blood and curiosity tainted the chill air. Mr. Pocket’s mouth twisted while he considered her words, as if he sucked upon a lemon sour.
“All right. What will you trade for your life, Miss Chapman?” he asked.
“A coin, sir. One of great value.” She dared tiny steps backward as she spoke, inches really, but every bit of gained ground felt like a small triumph. “And in your current financial state, I believe if you add the coin’s worth to the prize offered you as the last remaining guest at Bleakly Manor, your money woes shall be at an end. I give you the coin, and you let me leave the manor unharmed. Now.”
Mr. Pocket sniffed, not nearly with as much gusto as usual, though. In fact, his nose barely bobbed at all. “All right. Let’s have a look at it before I go making any promises. But so help me, miss, if you pull out anything other than a coin, I shall shoot you just for the pleasure of it.”
Without moving his body, Ben arched a brow at her.
She prayed with each heartbeat that the poison of her movements and words would not taint what he knew of her trustworthiness from the past. Withdrawing the second-chance coin, she pinched it between thumb and forefinger and held it up so the weak afternoon sunlight would cause it to gleam.
“Very nice.” The inspector narrowed his eyes, his tone lowering to a rumble. “But how do I know that’s real?”
For the space of a breath, she glanced at Ben, pleading for understanding with her eyes.
Then she snapped her gaze back to the inspector. “Here. Catch.”
She tossed the coin to him.
And Ben wheeled about, diving for the man.
Grunts, curses, and the crack of gunshot.
Then nothing but the crash of a picture frame across the room, smashed to the floor by a bullet gone wild.
Pocket moaned on the settee. For once Mademoiselle Pretents was completely silent.
Ben turned, chest heaving—with naught but a mark on his cheek to show for the scuffle.
Clara lowered her gun. “Thank God.”
Ben’s eyes burned like blackened embers, searching her from head to hem. “Are you hurt?”
“I am not.” Her voice shook, as did her whole body, but other than that she remained whole.
With a nod, Ben turned back to the inspector. Heedless of the man’s injury, he yanked open Mr. Pocket’s dress coat and rummaged inside.
Mr. Pocket cried out like an animal.
Clara winced, the tender part of her heart competing with the vengeful side.
Ben retrieved a small black velvet pouch. “Like you, Inspector, I never accuse without solid evidence.”
Mademoiselle Pretents rocked on her chair, throaty roars fighting to escape the gag in her mouth.
Ben turned on her. “Yet neither do I believe these are your jewels, mademoiselle. The courts will decide on the matter. Clara, ring for the maid, if you please. A constable and a physician are in order, I think.”
Crossing to the bell pull near the door, she yanked on the golden rope. Cold air blasted in from the window, and she trembled. What an eventful day. A smirk tugged at her mouth. No, what an eventful holiday. With a sigh, she laid the revolver on the sideboard.
“I cannot believe what you just did.” Ben’s voice accused her from behind.
She froze, fearful to face him. Would he scold? Rebuke? Be angry that she’d pointed a gun at him? Oh, sweet mercy! One wrong move and she could’ve accidentally shot him. What had she been thinking?
“Clara.”
His husky voice turned her around, and his smile weakened her already shaky knees.
“Well done.”
The softness in his gaze tightened her throat, and with the last of her strength, she offered him a frail smile. “Thank you.”
He stepped closer, smelling of battle and promise. “With those two out of the picture”—he nodded his head toward the subdued pair across the room—“that leaves just you and me. I’d say we are a brilliant team, are we not?”
“Yes.” For a moment, she reveled in the unity, the embrace of his unfettered admiration shining in his eyes.
But then reality slapped her as stinging a blow as the next waft of frigid air. Her smile faded.
Ben reached for her but, inches from contact, pulled back. “What troubles you?”
“A team may not receive the promised prize.” She bit her lip, working the fleshy part between her teeth. With Mr. Pocket and Mademoiselle Pretents out of the picture, only she and he were left.
She swallowed. Ought she give up the funds she desperately needed so that he might receive his freedom?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The front door closed on a writhing Mademoiselle Pretents, arm grasped tightly in a constable’s grip, and the lagging Mr. Pocket, shored up by the strong hold of a physician. The thud of wood against wood faded in the foyer like the last beat of a heart. Clara rubbed her arms, chilled by the night air creeping across the tiled floor. She ought to be grateful there’d been no need to call an undertaker. And truly she was, but an uneasy pressure that’d been building since the day she arrived dwarfed her gratitude.
Fear. What would happen next? Nothing good, considering the way the lifeless lion eyes burned down from its perch on the wall.
Turning from the door, the maid faced her and Ben. “Will that be all, sir, miss?
Ben nodded. “Yes, Betty. It’s late, and tomorrow’s a new day. It will do us all well to end this one, I think.”
Betty dipped her head. “Yes, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, miss.” She scurried past them, the scent of silver polish in her wake.
Clara watched her disappear down the corridor, wondering if the woman would catch a wink of sleep. Would she toil into the witching hours, shining silverware and soup tureens for a nearly nonexistent house party?
“Shall we?” Ben offered his arm. “I’ll see you to your room.”
She rested her fingers on his sleeve, and he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. Secure. Warm. A queer tinge rippled in her tummy. Was it safe to hope again?
She peeked up at Ben as they mounted the staircase. “I do feel sorry that neither Mademoiselle nor Mr. Pocket received what they’d come for, and indeed left here with so much less.”
“I suppose you could look at it that way.”
She studied the strong cut of his jaw, looking for a humorous twitch, but he held it firm.
“What else is there to think?” she asked.
“Well …” Ben peered down at her. “Mademoiselle Pretents came here with the hope of a new position in a new household. I’d say she got both, though a cell wasn’t likely what she had in mind for accommodations. She is, however, up to the challenge of teaching an entire prison population some new obscenities, in English and in French.”
Clara bit her lip to keep from smiling—a nearly impossible task, for the twinkle in his eyes was almost her undoing. “You, sir, are wicked.”
“Perhaps, but I am correct, am I not?” He turned to her at the second-floor landing, longing in his gaze—but longing for what? Approval?
Or for her?
Soft light flickered from the wall sconces, bathing half his face in brightness, the other in shadows. Fitting, really. Nine months ago his very life had been golden one moment, black the next. As had hers.
Ignoring his question, she let go of his arm and reached up, tracing a scar from his temple to cheek, one that narrowly missed his eye.
His skin burned against her touch, his gaze asking questions she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer. If she leaned closer, raised to her toes, his mouth would be hers once again. She could be his. No one would know.
Except for God.
The thought sobered her, and she pulled back. “What, uh, what of Mr. Pocket?” She set off down the corridor leading to her chamber and called over her shoulder. “You cannot say he shall be rewarded with a magistrate position.”
&n
bsp; “True.” Ben caught up to her in three long strides. “But he will be spending some very personal time with a magistrate, hmm?”
“That doesn’t count, and you know it.” She swatted his arm with a grin.
“No, but it did coax a pretty smile from you, which was my intent all along.” He winked at her.
She matched her feet to her increased heartbeat, hastening down the hall. Passing Miss Scurry’s door, she shivered. Now with Mademoiselle Pretents absent as well, she’d sleep alone on this floor.
“It’s quite empty here without Miss Scurry,” she murmured. “As quirky as she was, I do miss the old lady, but not her mice.”
“Two more nights. That’s all.” Ben pulled ahead of her and reached for the knob on her door, opening it for her. “Just two, and I shall have my freedom and you your money.”
“That would be breaking the rules.”
“After all that’s happened these past ten days, do you really think convention is a priority of Bleakly Manor’s master?” He ushered her across the threshold with a sweep of his hand. “Now then, there’s no need to worry about anything. With Mr. Pocket gone, there will be no more mishaps.”
She turned to him. “I hope so.”
“I know so.” Drawing near, he pressed a light kiss to her forehead, whispering “Sleep well” against her skin.
She stood, dazed, long after he pulled the door shut behind him. Sleeping was out of the question, though she did try eventually. She fought with twisted bedsheets the whole of the night, turning one way and another, until just before dawn when she finally surrendered the battle.
Faint light leached through the windowpanes by the time she opened her door, dressed for whatever the day might bring. But she stopped on the threshold, completely unprepared for the sight in front of her.
Across from her door, Ben slept, back against the wall, legs sprawled, head tipped back, wearing the same clothing as yesterday except for more wrinkles. Peace eased the lines on his face. Each rise and fall of his chest breathed life into the boyish good looks she remembered—so carefree, so handsome that the sight made her ache to the marrow of her bones.
12 Days at Bleakly Manor Page 12
